All the Wild Horses
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar, Claire. Wonder what his first stop will be.


Drive-by posting!

**Title**: All the Wild Horses  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar, Claire  
**Summary**: Wonder what his first stop will be.  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x13. Speculation for Vol. 4. Thanks for the spoilers, you guys!  
**Word Count**: 2100

**Notes**: Originally, I was going to write about how they're (presumably) twelve years apart and how that makes them the same sign in the Chinese zodiac (Horse – the Wanderer), but then I remembered I wasn't a teenager anymore and writing this kind of crap was unacceptable. But I kept the title and the convoluted metaphor. Sorry.

* * *

In the end, she picks Columbia University.

She tells Angela it's because the school has so much to offer, but in reality, Claire flipped a coin. She doesn't care about getting an elite eduction. She doesn't care about education in general. At least not of the academic variety.

She feels him in the admissions office, towering above her, guiding her hand as she fills out applications. Senses his presence when she's browsing the aisles for textbooks, expecting to find him waiting behind bins and corners. Knows he's there when she's walking to class, skulking in the shadows, daring her to seek him out.

It's not that she's scared. He can't exactly hurt her, after all. It's just that it seems so inevitable and no one is listening to her again. And why should they? It's not like she saved her dad and her grandmother and stopped Sylar when no one else could—

Oh, wait. She totally did all those things.

Claire frowns.

Her books are heavy and she doesn't want to do this.

But she takes a step and crosses the threshold, picks a seat way in the back, and focuses on the podium ahead. The professor drones on, the chalk reflects off the board, and Claire squints. There's a dark figure, she thinks, by the exit, tapping its fingers against the doorway and casting long eerie shadows across the podium.

She sits up straighter.

"—always in the negative form," the professor tuts, patting his tie. "The expression is believed to have originated in medieval Europe, when jailers would use horses to force confessions from prisoners—"

"That makes no sense," one of the students remarks, laptop illuminating his face. "The expression is 'wild horses couldn't _keep_ me away,' so—"

The professor twists his face into an unpleasant scowl. "Yes, if you'd kindly let me finish," he glances at the roster, marking it. "That idiom is merely one of the many unrelated to the phrase 'wild horses couldn't draw it from me.' Like 'horsing around' or 'straight from the horse's mouth,' and I don't believe I've seen you raise your hand—"

Yeah, okay, Claire's pretty sure she's in the wrong class.

So, quietly, she slips out of the auditorium, clutching her textbook to her chest. She has no idea where she's going because she lied to Angela about attending Orientation Week and now there's a hallway at every corner and she has to pick one.

A normal person would choose brightly-lit, bustling corridors, but Claire, of course, hurries through the darkest abandoned path, heart racing. She runs down countless stairs, one hand occasionally bracing against the rail as she rounds corners like a maniac.

The soles of her boots hit the floor with a dry squeak and then she's staring at the remnants of an old locker room, cordoned off by yellow tape and Under Construction signs. She takes a shaky breath, then steps in, fluorescent lights flickering weakly above her head.

"I know you're here, you bastard," she mumbles to herself, eyes narrowed and ears trained.

One step, two, three, deeper into the darkness, and Claire begins to hesitate. Maybe she's wrong. Maybe it's just her mind playing tricks on her. Maybe Sylar's really dead. Maybe—

"—you shouldn't skip classes, Claire," he greets, and slams her into the nearest wall.

She coughs, struggling, but he's definitely got experience with trapping her against walls, so she tells him, "This is getting old."

His head tilts imperceptibly.

"Not the welcome I expected," he admits, eyes darkening.

Claire's lips tug upwards. She drops her textbook, stops fighting him, and drawls unconvincingly, " 'Oh, no, how unexpected. I thought you were dead.' " Her smile turns wicked. "Better?"

Scowling, he presses his arm harder against her throat. "Not q—"

She jams a mechanical pencil into the back of his neck.

"Fuck," he growls, dropping her to the floor, one hand flying to his head to pull the pencil out. Intrigued, he glances at his bloody fingers, then flicks the thing away, turning curious eyes to Claire.

"...where were you _keeping_ it?"

She scoots up, raising her hand and nodding casually at her sleeve. "I've been waiting." Her mouth twists. "And next time, Sylar," she adds, "I won't miss."

He pauses, suddenly seeming unsure. "Waiting?"

This is going to sound completely wrong, but she doesn't care. "For you."

He frowns thoughtfully, watches her get up, then presses into her, pinning her to a rusted locker. "Why?"

"Unlike you," she coughs, feet dangling, "I learn from my mistakes." She has trouble processing the fact that there is no force behind his attack, so she says, in a low, calculated manner, "I knew you weren't dead." She wants to add _and I prepared_, but he's smiling.

"Funny story," he says lazily, bringing his other hand up to brush the bangs out of her eyes, fingers ghosting across her clammy forehead. "I _was_ wondering what happened to me."

Claire's eyes widen. The possibility that he didn't know it was her never actually crossed her mind.

"Now you know," she replies, voice dripping with disgust.

"No, Claire," he corrects, his breath tickling her lips. "I knew who killed me. I felt you." He pauses for effect. "I wanted to know _how_."

She pulls her shoulder to the side, trying to dislodge herself from his grip. "Trade secret."

His fingers slip down her temple, thumb rubbing gentle circles on her cheek. "I'm guessing... wild horses couldn't draw it from you."

She recognizes the threat, but focuses on his face with a haughty half-smile. "What's the matter, Sylar?" she taunts. "Afraid you're not as invulnerable as you thought?"

He loosens his hold. Her feet touch the ground. And then he's observing her with an unreadable expression.

"What was it?" he asks.

She wraps her fingers around his hands, prying them off her. "You're delusional if you think I'll tell you."

"What did you lace it with?" he snarls. "The glass?"

Claire thinks. She remembers grabbing a random piece of debris, stumbling over shattered vials and slipping on spilled chemicals. So, yeah, maybe the glass was doused with toxins, but—

"Why?" she asks, curious.

"I'm glitching," he accuses, taking a step back.

She rubs her throat with a scowl. "You lost your powers?"

His eyes fly to hers. "Not all of them."

Claire can feel her pulse spike. Surreptitiously, she looks around. Anything she could use is bolted down, but there, in the corner sink, a thin metal bat—

"Conveniently, I kept your ability," he continues, appearing oddly reflective. "Tell me what—"

She decks him with so much force she's surprised the bones in her hand haven't disintegrated. Quickly, she zips to the sink and wraps her fingers firmly around the handle, swinging around and slamming the bat into Sylar's chest.

Sylar doubles over, holding out a hand, palm flat against the air.

Well, okay, so he didn't lose his telekinesis thing. The bat flies out of her hands, embedding itself into the drywall behind her.

"Now, Claire," he warns as he straightens, suddenly looming above her. "If you wanted to play," he smiles boyishly, "all you had to do was ask." His fingers wrap around her neck, gaze slipping to her sleeves. "You don't have a calculator in there you'll try to kill me with?"

She narrows her eyes, teeth bared. "You killed my _mother_, Sylar."

He cocks his head, raising one eyebrow. "Technically, that was... assisted suicide."

She growls deep in her throat, trying to claw at any part of him she can reach. Which turns out to be none. He presses into her again, trapping her hands against his chest. "To be fair, I did give you a choice, Claire."

"An unfair one," she retaliates, blood boiling.

"A choice nevertheless," he points out with a slight shrug. "More than what your family ever gave you."

He looks completely unrepentant and it makes her want to soak him in kerosene and set him on fire. Which only makes her think of Meredith more. "Shut. Up."

He hums, gently puffing her bangs away. "See, Claire," he begins playfully though his voice is drenched with a wicked sort of satisfaction, "truth—"

"—stings like a bitch," she interrupts, irritated. "You said that already. Get some new material, Sylar."

"Bears repeating," he informs her coolly. "No one else has given you a choice before, Claire."

She frowns. "Stop saying that."

"What?"

"My name," she mutters. He doesn't look remorseful at all, just stands there, watching her as though he doesn't really know what to do with her. Finally, she says softly, "I've been given plenty of choices."

He considers her for a moment. "Yes, Claire," he sighs, "Given away like an unwanted pet by your grandmother, yes. Sounds like something you decided." He releases her neck, sliding his arms to the wall behind her. "And your powers. Yours by choice, I presume." His chest presses against hers, warm. "And this. You're here by choice, are you."

A chill runs down her spine, fueling her hatred. "Yeah. Yeah, that last part is all me, Sylar."

His eyes narrow to dark slits, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Do you want to know what that says about you, Claire?"

"No," she admits, gaze slowly connecting with his. "You told me to ask."

"Yes," he nods slightly, voice lilting.

She's replayed it in her head roughly four billion times. She should've disabled the cameras; should've found something to counteract the adrenaline; should've stayed with Meredith; should've gone after Sylar by herself—

—and yet, with all those alternate paths winding in her head, the thing she wanted to change most—

"What did Elle and my dad do to you?"

He glances at her lips. "Turned me into a monster."

"No, Sylar," she replies, voice sharp. "They gave you a _choice_."

His expression alternates between startled and amused. "I guess I was right."

Claire blinks. "What?"

He releases her, stepping away. "I was looking for something that was still good in this world."

She feels compelled to ask despite the melodramatic element. "Did you find it?"

He grins at her. "Yes."

"Was it in Elle?"

She wants him to flinch or look agitated or show some sort of human emotion.

He doesn't.

"No."

Frustrated, she eyes the bat still buried in the drywall. "Then in _who_?"

"You."

She pauses.

"I'm not a good person," she tells him eventually. "But I _am_ better than you."

"I know," he agrees.

This is stupid, but she has to ask. "Is that what you saw when you told me I was different, special?"

He retreats into the shadows.

"Answer me!" she shouts after him.

He's walking away, and she hasn't even killed him once.

"Wait!"

"I'll be back," his voice echoes.

It sounds more like a promise than a threat, and Claire feels oddly nauseous.

"Yeah, alright, Arnold," she mocks, but her hands are trembling.

She spies the discarded pencil and bends to pick it up.

It flies out of her fingers immediately.

"I learn from my mistakes, too, Claire," he waves, his back slowly leaving her line of sight.

She straightens, picks up her textbook, and heads back to class.

The tension seems to be gone. It feels... liberating to have a purpose. A real one, not one that someone else picked for her—not Peter, not Kaito, not genetics. She's choosing this for herself.

She could do it. She could always be there to stop Sylar. She knows how, she's got experience, and most importantly, he's going to _let_ her. She knows this with the same certainty he seems to possess.

It's like that coin she flipped—she's heads, he's tails, and they're probably just different sides of the same coin.

Her steps quicken.

She'll find him and make him suffer. If it takes a lifetime—if it takes _ten_—she'll rid this world of him.

There will be no better, or more appropriate, punishment. For either of them.

Claire smiles.

Yeah, wild horses couldn't keep her away from this.


End file.
